Serendipitous
by Trouble-For-A-Divus
Summary: John hadn't wanted or expected to be in London for very long. His luck, of course, decided that there should be complications. One of those complications was the endless snow piling up in the English city. The other was a man named Sherlock Holmes. (AU in where John is an author and Sherlock is a painter, Anderson is still an incompetent idiot, and London's just a bit colder.)
1. Verse One

ser·en·dip·i·ty (s[ebreve]r[lprime][schwa]n-d[ibreve]p[prime][ibreve]-t[emacr])

_n._ _pl._ **ser·en·dip·i·ties**

**1. **The faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident.

**2. **The fact or occurrence of such discoveries.

**3. **An instance of making such a discovery.

Bitter teeth chattering snow, it's cold,  
And the weather man predicts more on the Morrow.

Morrow is just another day to get through.  
It's really just my luck,  
No way to get out to York if all the roads are blocked.

This was just a stop.

A nice city, sure, but too big for my tastes  
Too many people.  
And what if I had to save them?  
Given, York's not any better  
But still, no way to get out  
At least until spring.

I sigh. tap my fingers on my chair.  
Chin in my hand.  
Watch the weatherman make a joke  
And hear automated laughter.  
"The sky may be monochrome," He grins  
"That doesn't mean you should stay-at-home!"  
Terrible, really,

_Because where else are you supposed to go?_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My jaw is starting to hurt  
And I think my hand is cramped.  
It's too numb and jittery to tell.

I hate book signings.  
To be honest, I never wanted my books published.  
But I needed the money, and. . .

I wrote a book  
I contacted a publisher  
I was made famous.

At least in libraries.

And I guess I'm a bit proud  
But mostly numb.  
And jittery.

Book signing's almost over  
And I can head to York, if I'm lucky.  
Which I'm not  
If I leave before nightfall.  
Which I can't.

While my thoughts revolve around despair and bad luck  
The last person comes up  
Places two books on the table  
'A study In Pink' and 'The Great Game'.  
Of all the mystery novels I wrote  
Those might be my favourites.

"John? John Watson?" the man asks me  
The man is a bit pudgy, with glasses  
And mousy brown hair.

I nod.

"Not an imposter," I assure him,  
Because that happened once before.

"It's me, Mike Stamford  
You know the one,  
We used to go to college together!"  
I look at him closer, although I thought Mike and college had long since passed  
I could see my old friend in the wide grin and smiling eyes  
But he's put on a few pounds, so it's hard to tell.  
"I know, I've gotten fat," He laughs.  
I shake my head a bit to argue politely (Did he read my mind or something?)

If I wasn't as pleased as I should have been,  
I blame it on cold and weariness  
Both settled bone deep my soul.

I made a list.  
All I needed to do was;  
Smile  
Ask him how life's been  
Then move on  
And leave for warmer climates.  
Somehow I screwed that up  
Twenty minutes later we were sipping coffee  
And he's telling me how great my books were  
They're alright, I suppose  
Nothing to ramble on about for fifteen minutes, surely.

My leg throbs with frost and imagined pain  
My hand twitches like a small animal

I just want to go to my room at the inn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"So what brings you to London?"  
I told him about my book signings and my meeting with a publisher  
That I'd probably stay a month or two  
Longer if this weather kept on  
Permanently if I found I liked London

"You'll need a flat share, then,  
Much cheaper than an inn  
Especially for long periods."

True enough.

"I'd be a difficult man to find a flatmate, for though."  
I pointed out.  
And I really didn't want to share a flat with anyone.  
To have them hear my screams at night.  
To have them pity my limp  
And the rest of me, too.

He chuckled.

I wondered which bit was funny.

"You're the second person to tell me that today," He explained

"Who was the first?"


	2. Verse Two

'Serendipity' is a bookstore, beneath two-two-one bee Baker street.  
If I close my eyes,  
I hear rustling paper  
Books being placed 'thump' back on their shelves  
(A woman attempts to cough quietly- They have a terrible cold, got it a week ago, from their girlfriend, who got it from her lover)  
If I breathe in deep, inhale;  
Ink and paper and rose incense flood my nostrils, and I smell coconut, burnt sugar ...then someone's perfume, but it's not 's.  
( brought in a baker's dozen of biscuits- holiday gift from .)  
(She's saving me one.)  
Open my eyes again.  
Books with colourful spines and embossed covers are stacked on every available surface  
Like gems and gold on a dragon's nest  
Soft yellow light comes from the lamps  
(They look like trees, with black bases tapering to a light green curtain)

One of the reasons I like being a painter  
Is that I can capture all this  
With a few strokes of my brush.

A teetering pile of books are by my side, one open on my lap  
'Peace and War'- Leo Tolstoy  
'A Field Guide to Radiation'- Wayne Biddle  
'The Raven'- Edgar Allen Poe  
'The Secret Malady: Venereal Diseases in Eighteenth Century Britain and France'-Linda Evi Merins  
'So You Want To Create The Living Dead'- author unknown  
'A Century Of Bones', the one I'm currently reading, by John Watson  
As far as I've read, it involves a very intelligent scientist who's discovered how to melt the flesh from bones and still have the test subject living.  
Which is impossible. . .  
But intriguing.

I'm hoping an explanation on how to do that will appear somewhere in the volume.

I get the where someone steals the serum before I'm interrupted  
"Sherlock," someone says (I easily identify it as Mike, and I am not completely pleased.)  
"This is John Watson, and old friend of mine."

I glance up once, then back at my book.  
(I hide the author's name from them.)  
"Captured, or did they escape?" I ask  
I can see that he doesn't understand  
And he tells me so.  
It's an easy question, so why doesn't he understand it?  
"The terrorist, were they captured or did they escape?"  
"Killed, but how did you-"  
"How do you feel about the violin?"  
He doesn't understand again.  
He tells me so.  
"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,' I explain  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking, and can go for days talking to myself,  
Would that bother you?"  
"Who ever said anything about flatmates?"  
I told him that he did, or at least he told Mike.  
I informed Mike that I'm looking for a flatmate just this morning,  
And now he introduces me to an old college friend.  
It's obvious, isn't it?

I pick up my books (Still careful to hide the author's name) and put them in my bag  
"I've got to dash," I informed them  
"Left my riding crop in the garden."  
John looks at Mike, a look I know all too well  
'_Is he for honest-to-goodness serious?'_  
"There's a nice little flat in central London, we might be able to afford it. We'll meet there, tomorrow evening, at seven o'clock."  
Head towards the door, turn left at the Baker street sign-

"Is that it, then?"

"Is that what. . .?"

"We've just met, and now we're going to look at a flat." John raises his eyebrows, grins tiredly.  
There's a story written in the furrows of his brow.

"Problem?"

He shakes his head, seemingly amused, like I just told him the sun goes around the Earth  
(It wouldn't matter if it did, anyhow.)  
"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."  
Unimportant, those things,  
Trivial, and he'd know them if he just noticed.

"I know you're an author with a writer's block who suffers from phobophobia, that you've prevented a huge loss of human life by risking your own, that you've recently returned from a world tour, and that you have a brother who's worried about you, but that you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Maybe it's because he recently split up with his wife, more likely because his profession led to his downfall, and that he still continues it." His reaction, as I did not expect, is awed, but I continue walking. "I'd say that's enough to go on, don't you?"  
Pause, just by the front door.  
(Wind is blowing in from the street through a crack made by when someone was idiot and pulled instead of pushed, just as a rock was wedged between the door and the stand, causing the pressure to spread evenly enough that the glass didn't break, but was still damaged.)  
(Idiot? Sounds like Anderson.)  
"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two two one bee Baker street."  
I point up, and wink, and disappear into the crowd.

About a minute later I'm so distracted by thoughts that I walk into a wall.  
I hope that they didn't see that.


End file.
